Strange Dreams Part Three: Excusez-moi, Are You Bloody Serious!
by Oconee Belle
Summary: Newkirk not only finds himself standing in LeBeau's shoes, but also in LeBeau's kitchen, wielding LeBeau's wooden spoon AND enjoying it. What's more? LeBeau hates cooking, despises the French language, and would rather risk drinking poison than tasting the magic of French cuisine.


Newkirk could not believe what he was doing. He was holding a frying pan. On top of that, there was the equally shocking fact that there was something inside of it. Something that _he_ had cooked with _his own_ two hands. And, by the looks of it, it was a Crepe Suzette.

It was colored to perfection. Just the right thickness. Just the right smell. But wait. How did _he_ know that?

"Louie, I believe they are done now."

LeBeau was sitting at the table, a plate with a teetering pile of Crepe Suzettes under his nose. "I still don't know 'ow you are planning to force these things down me throat, mate. If I wanted to sacrifice me life, I'd find a more 'onorable way to go about it."

Newkirk didn't have the time to make the connection that LeBeau was speaking with a Cockney accent. More surprisingly, he didn't catch the fact that he was speaking with a French one. Or, that it was rising an octave or two with the building anger.

"How dare you speak of a fine French cuisine in such a way?! In a country full of pathetic, offensive dishes, I would think you would at least appreciate the _effort_ of putting together _horrible_ rations and turning them into _beautiful _masterpieces!"

LeBeau snorted and shoved the plate away. "I've seen better in a tin of processed cheese! And, me taste buds saw better days on the streets of East London!"

"Curse your taste buds!" Newkirk marched over, wooden spoon in hand. "You wouldn't know a fine cuisine if it bit you!"

"Oh, it does, mate," LeBeau scoffed. "It's called 'eartburn and not surprisingly I've 'ad much more of it since I 'ad to share a barracks with you!"

"Oh you have, have you?!" Newkirk shook his wooden spoon under LeBeau's nose dangerously. "I didn't even know you had a heart! You ungrateful, rotten-," he broke off in a fountain of rapid fire French.

"Is that so?" LeBeau cocked an eyebrow. "If you're going to chew me 'ead off, you might as well do so in a language I can bloody well understand. Blimey, _you're_ going to be the reason I go 'ard of 'earing!"

Newkirk sucked in a breath, "Bah!" He stormed back to the *small, portable stove that they had snitched from who knows where. The pan was smoking and the lovely Crepe Suzette was now ruined. "Sacre chat! Not my Crepe Suzette!"

"It 'ad what was coming for it," LeBeau spoke up smugly from the table.

Newkirk flew at him. "That is nothing compared to what is coming for you!" He slammed his spoon down on the table for emphasis.

LeBeau stared at it blankly for a second, and then a wide grin spread across his face. "Is that all you've got? I must say, Peter, I'm right surprised at you."

"How dare you insult my cooking? By doing this, you have not only insulted me, but all of France!" And that's when it hit him. He, _Peter Newkirk_, was standing up for _France_ with a wooden spoon in hand, _and _cooking Crepe Suzettes! The world had to be ending!

"Well, by all means, tell France I'm sorry! The last thing I need is _another_ enemy!" LeBeau stated through clinched teeth, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

More French words spouted out from Newkirk's mouth and at the moment he knew_ exactly_ what he was saying. It was the kind of words that would get him kicked out of church with a steel toed boot. Temper flaring, he swung the spoon at LeBeau.

The smaller corporal ducked away just in the nick of time before jumping up. "Cor blimey, we don't 'ave to resort to violence!"

"Believe me when I tell you I am far past the point of violence!" Newkirk lunged at LeBeau and chased him outside, screaming some of his new favorite French words.

LeBeau may have been small, but he was fast. His blue RAF cap flew off his head, but he kept running in circles around the compound, screaming, "Somebody 'elp! This is bloody murder!"

"Rest assured that is _exactly_ what it is!"

Schultz appeared out of nowhere and barreled into LeBeau, "Stop that running!"

"You get chased by a French maniac chef with a wooden spoon and then tell me to stop running!" LeBeau kicked and squirmed like a slippery fish and Schultz lost his grip. The corporal broke free and took off once more across the compound.

With that delay Newkirk was now at LeBeau's heels.

"Cockroach, stop chasing him! It isn't nice!"

It took Newkirk a minute to realize that Schultz was referring to him as the 'cockroach.' But, as soon it registered, he spat out a breathless, "Bah! Next time he insults your cooking, I will help you kill him too!"

"But your cooking is delicious! You do not have to kill anyone!" When Schultz saw that there was no stopping them he fired his riffle in the air- the rifle that he _never_ kept loaded.

Startled, the two corporals skidded to an abrupt stop, almost crashing into each other. That gave a few guards the time to pin them still, clamping down on their arms. But, rifle or no rifle, neither prisoner was done hurling insults at one another.

"Fellas! Fellas! What's with all the racket?" Colonel Hogan stepped between the two, much to Schultz's great relief.

"They were arguing, Colonel Hogan," Schultz informed him, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Naughty naughty. You should be ashamed of yourselves!"

"Ashamed of meself, my foot! The poor sod needs to be taught that 'e's no *Marcel Boulestin."

Newkirk opened his mouth to protest, but Hogan raised a hand. "And getting yourself chased around the compound was your idea of teaching _him _a lesson?"

Before either of them could say anything more, Colonel Klink came marching out, "Schultz! What are these men doing, running around the compound like wild horses? Must I remind you that Stalag 13 is a very strict-,"

Hogan cut him off, "No harm done, Kommandant. Peter just got a little insulted. You know how emotional Frenchmen can be."

Newkirk found himself turning a deep red and LeBeau only grinned more smugly than before.

Klink looked at Newkirk and shook his head disapprovingly, "Hasn't your mother ever taught you anything about respect, Cockroach? Just because you feel like killing someone doesn't mean you go around doing it. Remember, Stalag 13 hasn't had one prisoner escape, and no one has ever died under my command."

"With a spotless record like that, too bad you can't be Fuhrer of Germany," LeBeau quipped. "You just might 'ave spared England of the Blitz."

"How dare you speak like that of the Fuhrer? He is doing a wonderful job for the Third Reich!"

"And an even more wonderful job to Stepny!" LeBeau spat out in disgust, clinching his fists.

Hogan cleared his throat before Klink could so much as raise his own fist, "I'm sorry, Kommandant. LeBeau has been worried sick about family members in Stepny. You know how it is. Um, would that be all, sir? Good. Come on, men. Back to the barracks."

The guards, so used to listening to Colonel Hogan, let go of the two corporals, but Klink wasn't about to let them free just yet. It was high time they felt the heat boiling from the veins of the Iron Eagle!

"Hogan! Wait!"

Hogan rolled his eyes and turned around. "Sir, I protest! We already washed the windows!"

"What windows?" Klink was only confused for a second, and then he shook his finger in Hogan's face. "Nice try, Hogan, but you will not be able to distract me! With a spotless record like that of Stalag 13, do you really believe I would let your men off the hook so easily?"

"Well, I-,"

"Hogan! I'm not finished!" Klink half whined, half bellowed.

"But, you were asking my opinion, sir-,"

"That would be all, Hogan! The answer is clearly _no_. Schultz, give them five days in the cooler!"

"Kommandant, have a heart! Throwing them into the cooler on account of a little disagreement is hardly what I call following the laws of the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention!"

"Dismissed, Hogan. Schultz, take them away!" Klink clicked his heels and went back inside.

As Schultz led them away, Hogan called after them, "Next time kill each other more quietly, eh fellas?"

LeBeau and Newkirk shot daggers at each other with their eyes. _Is this quiet enough? _Newkirk growled to himself as they were gently shoved into a random cell.

"Please, be good and do not hurt each other!" Schultz begged as he locked them inside.

Newkirk plopped down on the bunk and glared at LeBeau. LeBeau took out his deck of cards and shuffled them noisily, glaring back. Neither said a word. Both just glared.

Finally LeBeau spoke up, "Look, Peter, I know 'ow much you adore your cooking and quite frankly that doesn't bother me in the least. But, don't drag me into it because you know 'ow I feel about French cuisine. It just isn't me cup of tea."

Newkirk winced at the mention of tea. That barbarous liquid had the tendency to look _and_ taste like stale swamp water. "Is this your idea of a watered down apology?"

"Until I get a chance to practice me new one in front of a mirror. And, if you 'aven't noticed, I don't 'ave one to stand in front of at the moment."

"And, you're blaming _me_ for that?" Newkirk scoffed. "Because if so, let me remind you who started this whole argument in the first place, _mon ami_."

"Yes, refresh me memory. I seem to 'ave forgotten who made those bloody Crepe Suzettes. Was it Santa Clause?"

Newkirk bristled and mumbled something that sounded a lot like French under his breath.

LeBeau rolled his eyes, "Mate, if you keep that up, I'll be fluent by the end of this bleeding war."

"Maybe just as well! At least then you can understand that I am insulting you!"

"You have nerve, telling that to a Frenchman!" LeBeau slapped his cheek, hard. "Or, have you forgotten that I am indeed from France?"

"Ha, first you're English, and now you're French! Would you make up your bleeding mind?"

"Pierre, I do not know what you are trying to pull, but it isn't funny! Wake up! I do not like listening to a butchered version of my beautiful language, especially if it is coming from _you_!"

Newkirk opened his eyes, "Cor, _you're _the one with nerve, calling it _your_ language. Since when did a bloody Englishman speak French?"

"Apparently since just now!" LeBeau crossed his arms over his chest. "What were you thinking, saying all those words to me? You should have your mouth washed out with soap!"

"What are you talking about, Louis?" Newkirk suddenly sat up on the hard cot, looking at his enraged friend in confusion.

Although LeBeau's face softened, he still managed to stay stiff as a board while he snapped out a cold, "Never mind, Pierre. It must have been one crazy dream."

Newkirk blinked in bewilderment as the whole dream came flooding back to him again. "Blimey, you 'ave no idea." He slowly lay back down and closed his eyes.

After a few seconds, LeBeau leaned forward and whispered, "What kind of a friend are you? First, you curse me in my language, and then you don't even tell me what the dream was about?" He leaned back, tightening his arms around his chest in mock betrayal.

"And why should I? Aren't you a little too old for bedtime stories?"

LeBeau rolled his eyes, "A dream that can get you, mon pote, to speak French, isn't a bedtime story, it is a nightmare. Besides, do we really have anything better to do?"

Newkirk propped up on his elbow. LeBeau sure was right about that. He had forgotten that they had been thrown into the cooler... "Oh alright, Louie. It all started with me making Crepe Suzettes…"

The End

**Author's Note:**

**1) The stove I mention is in the episode The Pizza Parlor. LeBeau is making Crepe Suzettes on it. Where they got it, I have no idea.**

**2) Marcel Boulestin was a real celebrity chef who brought French cuisine to England. He became very famous in England and even gave Prime Minister Winston Churchill a cooking lesson! He died in 1943.**

**And, yes, I realize that they got pretty violent. Just pretend that they were stir crazy and took it out on each other.**


End file.
